Showing posts with label IndiGo. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 10, 2025

Boolgarrin Review #IndiGo

RECENT RELEASE

Book Title: Boolgarrin

Author: Jude Rule

Publisher: Warru Press

Cover Artist: Leo Fortin

Release Date: November 8, 2025

Tense/POV: third person, past tense, alternating POV

Genres: Contemporary MM Romance

Tropes: Small town romance, fake marriage, marriage-of-convenience romance, second chance

Heat Rating: 3.5 flames

Length: 38 913 words/ 150 pages

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited

Amazon AU | Amazon US | Amazon UK

He thought he was saving the farm. He never expected to lose his heart.

Blurb

Sometimes you have to fake it before you make it—especially when it comes to marriage.

When a father's hatred becomes a weapon from beyond the grave, two men must fake a marriage to save a family farm.

Finn has hurt him once. Can Ben survive being married to the man he desires most in the world without his heart being crushed in the process?

Located in the fictional town of Murrilup, Western Australia, Boolgarrin is a tender marriage-of-convenience romance. Amidst small-town prejudice and a vengeful neighbour, two men hope for a second chance at love.

Excerpt

Ben couldn’t sleep. He twisted in the sheets, fists clenching against the mattress. The ceiling above seemed to tilt with the shadows, and his breath caught sharp and uneven, as if the ground had shifted beneath him. He was used to having control of his life, and now he felt completely unbalanced. His mind was racing. In one day, his whole life had been upended. Amelia and Josie had started wedding planning. The admission by Finn, though, was what really blind-sided him.

He finally gave up on sleep. Slipping his feet into his slippers, he padded into the kitchen.

He smiled faintly as he put a couple of brownies in the microwave, then turned to flick on the kettle and noticed pots simmering on the stove. Iris made the best brownies.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought I'd be the only one up."

Amelia appeared from the pantry, smiling tiredly.

"Can't sleep either?" he asked.

She shook her head and gestured to the kitchen bench. "Come sit. I'm just finishing something."

“I can make my tea and head back to my room,” Ben said.

“Nah, come and join me,” she said, pulling out one of the breakfast stools. After helping herself to some water from the fridge door, she sat down.

They sat together briefly, neither saying anything.

“What are you making?” asked Ben, breaking the silence.

“Hand cream.”

“It smells amazing.”

“Thanks,” said Amelia. She smiled, the first genuine smile Ben had seen from her all day. "I've been selling some at the farmers' market in Bremer Bay. Nothing major, just pocket money really, but people seem to like them." She returned to the pots on the stove and started stirring them.

"Selling them?" Ben raised his eyebrows. "That's brilliant, Amelia. Have you thought about expanding it?"

She shrugged. " I wanted to. I have notebooks full of ideas, including new scents and packaging designs, and I've even researched what it would take to start officially." Her face fell slightly. "Dad said university was a waste of money for girls. That I'd just get married and have babies anyway, so why bother with business studies? He was happy to spend money on the stuff I needed to make the product, but he wasn’t happy with me selling any, even at the market.”

Ben felt that familiar anger toward his father rising in his chest. "That's rubbish, Amelia. You know that, right?"

"I know. But when someone tells you something often enough..." She trailed off, focusing intently on her stirring.

"You could still do it, you know. Study business. Sell these." Ben gestured toward her pot of hand cream. "Finn would help with the legal stuff."

Amelia's face brightened. "You think he'd help?"

"Of course he would. Especially after..." Ben paused, realising he was about to bring up the marriage arrangement. "Well, especially considering everything he's doing for us."

For a while, the kitchen was quiet except for the sound of Amelia's spoon scraping the sides of the pot. Ben stared into his tea, Finn's words from earlier echoing in his head.

"Can I ask you something?" Amelia said quietly.

“Sure.”

"I saw your face when Nate said Finn would move in. Why is that such a big deal? He used to stay over all the time."

Ben raked a hand through his hair. "That was different. Back then, he was just Nate’s friend."

Amelia tilted her head. "So?"

He took a big breath. “It’s a lot, okay?”

“I know, but …”

“Look, if I tell you something, do you promise to never tell anyone, not Finn and definitely not Nate?”

She nodded, “Of course. I love you, brother. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“Then I'm honoured you trust me.”

He laughed nervously and began, fingers picking at his nails. “When I was seventeen, he came over, but Nate was out with Josie. Their relationship was still new, and they had gone to the Stirling Ranges, where they planned to have a picnic and do the Kanga Walk. He told me that he would hang around until they got back, as he hadn’t let Nate know that he was coming anyway. We had a great afternoon. We went for a ride and sat down by the old Moreton Bay Fig Tree. When we returned, he came into my room and we played video games. We just talked and laughed, and I may have just snaffled a port, so we may have had a drink or two too.”

Amelia arched a brow. “You may have?”

“Fine, I definitely did.” Ben grinned briefly. “Finn was more used to drinking than me, but we both became a little tipsy.”

“Oh no. This is going to be bad, isn’t it?” Ben nodded his head.

“I started talking to him about how he had the most beautiful, deep blue eyes, like the ocean, that someone could drown in. I even told him his eyes were cobalt blue.” Ben put his hands over his face. “I mean how geeky is that?”

Amelia shrugged and continued to stir her concoction on the stove. “I don’t know, it’s not as if you told him the hex code for the colour.”

Ben laughed and shook his head. “No, but it gets worse. I then told him what kissable lips he has, and then I leaned forward and kissed him. At first tentatively, but then when he put an arm around me, I reached out and pulled my hands through his hair.” Ben closed his eyes; the mere thought of that kiss always brought him back to that night, the softness of Finn’s hair and the feel of his lips. It was as if electricity shot through Ben. Before Ben knew it, he had acted on instinct, their lips moving together, Ben’s tongue moving across the seam between Finn’s lips. Finn responded, sliding his arm around Ben’s waist and kissing him back. When Finn moaned, Ben pulled him closer.

“Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.”

“Nate,” said Amelia quietly. She had stopped stirring and was sitting opposite Ben on a stool. Ben nodded and put his hands over his cheeks.

“Finn jumped back, causing me to step back. Our hair was mussed, our skin flushed, and our lips swollen. Nate opened the door and told Finn that he was home. He had dropped Josie off on the way. He looked between the two of us, and I still have no idea what he was thinking. Finn told him he would join him in a sec.”

“Close call. I’m glad that Nate didn’t just walk in.”

I shook my head. “I’m so glad too. It was bad enough as it was.”

Amelia reached over and put her hand over mine. “What happened next?”

“Nate’s forehead creased, and he looked like he was going to say something, but then he closed the door and left.”

“Finn spoke quietly, presumably so that Nate wouldn’t hear, but there was a forcefulness to his voice. ‘What the heck!’ he had exclaimed, ‘we’re both men.’ I looked down, thinking that I’d misread all the signals. I thought he had liked it. He told me in no uncertain terms that it could not happen again, as he didn’t like me that way. He then left the room, while I slumped to the floor, wondering how I was ever going to recover.”

Amelia reached across and squeezed his hand. “So, that’s why you started trying to avoid him?”

“Was I that obvious?” Ben rubbed his chest, wondering why it hurt so badly all these years later.

“Yep. Sorry, but it was very obvious.”

“It was only a couple of weeks later that I came out to you and Nate.”

“So, you fell in love with Finn when you were drunk.”

Ben shook his head. “No, I had had a big crush on him for a couple of years, before I, well, before that incident.”

“Look, I can see why it was embarrassing back then, but I don’t see why it is such a problem now.”

“Because I made a fool of myself. I was so utterly embarrassed that I couldn’t face him until now.” Ben paused. “Even now.”

“But is it really that bad? I mean, you made a pass and he kissed you back, right?”

“Right.”

“And he wrapped his arm around you?”

“Yes.”

“Then, when you were nearly caught by Nate, he lied and told you he wasn’t gay.”

“Right again. I didn’t even know he was gay until today.”

“I still don’t get why you were so embarrassed.”

“He rejected me, and he is my brother’s best friend, which meant that I had to face that rejection every day.”

Amelia shook her head. “Ben, I think that he may have rejected you with his words, but his actions say something else. I think he was attracted to you and liked the kiss. When he was nearly caught by Nate, he freaked out.”

Ornery Owl's Review
Five out of Five Stars

I love the premise of the story. The fake marriage to save the farm ends up turning into a real love story and does so in a believable fashion. The story kept me reading. Ben is a believable character with realistic wounds including his father’s cruelty and longstanding crush on Finn. Finn is the grumpy to Ben's sunshine.

The secondary characters provide a platonic, found-family warmth. Traits such as Nate’s practical anger, Josie’s grounded support, and Finn’s professional calm all read true. The descriptions of the farm and small-town life are beautifully vivid.

The arson and animal attacks raise the stakes in the plot but for some readers they may range into thriller territory. Some readers might find the scene in chapter twelve where Ben, Finn, and Nate are dealing with the wounded sheep to be upsetting. However, the scene is written in a matter-of-fact fashion and does not give graphic details. I didn't have a problem with it.

Overall, this is an honest small-town romance with a likeable couple and a wonderful found-family group supporting them. The book is suitable only for mature readers because of adult themes and for scenes such as the one involving the fatally injured sheep.

About the Author

Jude Rule is an author from Western Australia. This is his debut novel.

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Tuesday, December 2, 2025

The Deviation Cover Reveal #GayBookPromotions

COVER REVEAL

Book Title: The Deviation

Author, Cover Artist, and Publisher: Rebecca Raine

Release Date: December 17, 2025

Tense/POV: first person, present tense, alternating POV

Genres: Contemporary MM Romance

Tropes: Rock star, first time bi, workplace romance, forbidden love, found family

Themes: pining, coming out, integrity, trust, belonging, loyalty

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 88 000 words

It is Book 3 in a series where each book can be read as a standalone.

It does not end on a cliffhanger.

HEA guaranteed.

Goodreads

Available for Pre-Order

Amazon US | Amazon UK

When my quiet life fell apart, he turned up the music in my soul. How do I pretend we never happened?

Blurb

Johnny

I did everything my parents wanted: got a respectable job, married my childhood sweetheart, and pushed my rock star dreams into the background. It was enough for me… until my divorce cracked open the cage.

Now old cravings rush to the surface, and I ache to satisfy each one. Starting with the gorgeous man I lock eyes with at a musical festival. Calum is all kinds of perfect. As a manager, he could accelerate my music career. As a man, he reignites the fire in my soul. I can’t have him both ways.

When my band signs with Calum’s company, we agree to keep our distance. No one can know we’ve met before. How far we’ve gone. How deeply we’ve tasted. Our futures depend on the secrets we must keep.

Calum

If I’d known who Johnny was the night we met, this never would have happened. Getting involved with a client is forbidden, and I can’t risk my job—or my sister’s security—for some lust-fuelled romance.

Working together doesn’t have to be complicated. That’s what I tell myself every time we avoid touching. When his eyes tease, and his lyrics seduce. As our professional successes mount, the connection between us only grows stronger.

There are lines we can’t cross. Boundaries we can’t break. But when Johnny is all I want, all I think about… how do I stay away?

Excerpt

Johnny ambles over to invade my personal space. The warm, freshly showered scent of him creeps into my nostrils, causing me to inhale, but I don’t shy away from his closeness. He’s in a dangerous mood. If I show weakness, he may pounce.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, gesturing with the tumbler that dangles from the fingers of his right hand.

“Sure.” It’s a terrible idea, but at the moment I’ll say yes to anything that will put some distance between us. He withdraws to the kitchen, and I suck in a lungful of oxygen. It doesn’t help. His presence lingers in every square inch of air. It strokes my insides, burrowing into my cells and setting them on fire.

This is not the meeting I expected. We’re supposed to talk about Ned and how we can be allies in my bid to win him over. This isn’t supposed to be a seduction, and I am definitely not supposed to be gagging for it.

Stalking after him, I plant myself in the entrance to the kitchen and glare at the lines of his muscular back. “Why am I here, Johnny?” The clipped words imply irritation, though the truth is probably closer to lustful vexation.

He turns, smirking as he delivers the generous glass of scotch to my hand. “Because you can’t stop thinking about me.”

My spine stiffens at his knowing drawl. I snatch the drink before escaping back to the living room. It has more room for pacing and I’m unsure what he’ll do if I stay still. “I mean, why did you ask me to come here tonight?”

He drains his glass as he returns. Dumping it on the coffee table, he steps into the path I’m wearing through his carpet. I come to an abrupt halt to prevent a head-on collision. His hands lift to cup my face, the calloused fingertips dragging over my cheekbones. The deep brown of his eyes drink me in, and his mouth is a breath away from mine. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says in a rough whisper.

There’s no smirk this time. Only need and heat and passion. “I wonder where you are, constantly. What you’re doing. How you taste.” His body crowds mine. Our hips brush together and, holy fuck, we’re both hard as nails. This man is lightning in my veins. The way I want him hurts, and I glory in the sharpness of the need. “I imagine you masturbating to the thought of me,” he whispers, “every time I masturbate to the thought of you.”

“Johnny.” The name is a groan, pulled all the way from my throbbing cock and up through my vocal cords. “We can’t do this.”

“Sure we can.” His head dips, and I shiver as his lips brush my throat. “I’ll show you.” His hands are on my hips now, tugging me more firmly against him. His mouth chases mine but I turn my head, my eyes drifting closed.

“I need…” My words falter as he rocks his hips, rubbing his erection against mine.

One hand threads through my hair. Taking it in a firm grip, he angles my face back towards his. His panting breath fills my open mouth. “I need you, too.” And then he’s kissing me. His tongue in my mouth. His body flush against mine.

God help me, I kiss him back. Even as I force my arms to stay at my sides and my body to remain still, I can’t resist losing myself for precious moments in his kiss, in the scotch and temptation of him.

When a needful moan reverberates from my throat to his lips, he pulls back long enough to smile at me. It’s the smile that shocks me back to my senses. Lifting one hand to his chest, I force myself to push him away.

“No, Johnny.” We stand there staring at each other, our chests heaving. “I need Fifth Circle. I need to sign a band and my boss has decided it has to be your band.” His smile dies and he straightens away from my touch. “If I don’t sign you to Rush, I lose my job. If my boss finds out what’s going on between us, I lose my job.” The ramifications of my actions slam into me and I drain the glass of scotch I’m still holding before putting it beside his. “I can’t risk my job. Not for anything.”

Not for you. The unspoken words hang between us.

His gaze hardens and a bitter grimace curls his lips. “In that case, we’re both shit out of luck.” Picking up the empty glasses, he storms back towards the kitchen. “There may not even be a band anymore.”

About the Author

Rebecca is a long-time lover of all things romance. Whether it’s a book, movie, or real life, she will always have more fun if there’s a love interest thrown into the mix. She lives in Queensland, Australia with her very own hero husband, two quirky kids and one big, black dog. Other than reading and writing books, her favourite things include loud music, enjoying a glass of wine on the patio, organising everything in existence, and spending too much time on the Internet.

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Essence New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: Essence

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Mystery & Suspense, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy

Themes: Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ /Gay, LGBTQ+ /Sex/Gender Shifters & MPreg, Vampires

Series: Splintered Bloodlines (#3)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 71

Description

Bobby’s always had a thing for silver foxes. Still has. Just never expected to find the ultimate one is his fated mate.

Bobby Kirkland leads a simple life -- mostly simple, considering his budding romance with the esteemed Deacon Saridan, head vamp of House Saridan.

Amid the romance and Bobby's exploration of the BDSM lifestyle with his new mate, a string of murders leads Deacon to believe that a familiar, though certainly not kind, face has shown itself in the lands of House Saridan… and this threat proves to be an even bigger challenge than first thought.

WARNING: Adult language and situations, including BDSM

Excerpt

Essence (Splintered Bloodlines 3)
Mychael Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Mychael Black

Deacon

“How’s he doing? Fitting in okay?”

The dock foreman, Toryn, leaned against the frame of the plate-glass window we stood at as we watched the workers in the shipping area below. “Seems to be. He gets along with the guys pretty well.”

I glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “But…”

He sighed. “He struggles to stay on task sometimes, and he tends to daydream a good bit. Not a bad thing inherently, but not great when working around forklifts and eighteen-wheelers.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. The young man who’d captured my attention weeks ago was indeed a bit flighty at times. According to Cam, Bobby Kirkland had always been that way, and a diagnosis of ADHD as a pre-teen had answered a lot of questions. He needed structure and routine, in my opinion. I’d hoped working here would give him that, but he still seemed to have trouble staying focused on occasion.

The bell signaling the end of the workday rang out in the warehouse. I spotted Bobby going toward the door that led into the large breakroom where the lockers were. Beside me, Toryn snickered softly.

“I’m surprised you haven’t claimed him yet.”

I turned away from the window. “Soon.”

I followed him out of my office and downstairs. Most of the workers were already heading home, but a few -- including Bobby -- remained in the breakroom. Toryn patted my shoulder and went to his own locker. The others glanced over at me, and a couple of them shot Bobby teasing smirks. Even from the doorway, I saw him blush. There wasn’t any hint of jealousy with this group, thankfully. When Bobby met my gaze, I discreetly gestured for him to join me upstairs. He nodded, and I headed back up. Once I claimed him, we’d be able to speak telepathically and not worry about coworker issues. Then again, he also wouldn’t be working either, but that was a discussion for another day.

A few minutes after I sat down on the small couch in my office, the door opened. Bobby smiled, though there was a good bit of nervousness behind it. He shut the door and sat a couple of feet beside me at my urging. I twisted a little to face him and got comfortable.

“How was work?”

“Good,” he said, fidgeting a bit with his hands, like he didn’t know what to do with them. One leg bounced a little.

“Have you had any problems with your coworkers?”

Bobby didn’t answer right away, which told me everything I needed to know. I reached over and put my hand on his knee, stilling the movement almost immediately. His eyes widened for a moment, making him seem far younger than thirty-one. Of course, at my age, he was young.

“What is it? You can tell me anything, Bobby.”

He swallowed and tore his gaze from mine. I waited while he thought about whatever he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke. “Just a couple of guys who seem to think I’m an idiot.” He looked back up at me. “I’m not. I just get… distracted sometimes, hyper focused at others.”

“No, you’re definitely not an idiot. You wouldn’t be working here if so,” I said. “Have they done or said anything directly to you?”

“No, but I’ve caught a few whispers here and there,” he replied. “Not to mention the weird glances.” He shrugged and sighed. “I feel like I’m back in fucking high school, to be honest. It’s ridiculous.”

I chuckled softly and gave his knee a gentle squeeze. “I have a potential solution then, but I think we need to have a good, long talk before we go any further.”

Bobby nodded and stared down at my hand. “I honestly started to worry that this was a one-sided thing,” he muttered.

Unable to resist, I lifted my hand to cup his chin, tilting his head until I was looking into those soulful brown eyes. I stroked my thumb across his lower lip, and he let out a soft gasp. “I assure you, this is very much mutual. That said, there are details we must go over first.”

“Those details have anything to do with your necklace?”

I smiled and lifted the thin chain from under my shirt. Light reflected off the tiny handcuff pendant accented with garnets. “Indeed. How about we have dinner, and we can chat?”

“Sounds good to me. I need to let Dad and Cam know where I’ll be. I don’t have to, but it’s an old habit.”

“Absolutely, and a good one to have. Do you have any food preferences or sensitivities I need to know about?”

“I’m lactose intolerant, but that’s it.”

“Understood. Let Beau and Cam know what’s going on and then meet me in my chambers upstairs. Normally, I’d take you out, but the things we need to discuss are not for anyone else’s ears.”

His gaze shifted a bit, and I couldn’t ignore the urge any longer. Fingers gripping his chin, I tipped his head and leaned close. Bobby’s soft moan the moment our lips touched sent almost overwhelming need rushing through me. His scent -- a decadent mix of soap, shampoo, and something woodsy yet sweet -- filled every part of my psyche. The urge to bite flitted through my mind, but I shoved it away for now. I knew he was mine; I didn’t need to taste his blood to confirm it.

Bobby opened for me, pliant, eager, and so insanely delicious. I released his chin and cupped the back of his head, pushing the kiss into hungrier territory for both of us. Before I could lose control and take him right here, though, I made myself pull back. He grumbled, and I nipped his lower lip before soothing it with my tongue.

“Dinner,” I murmured. “I need to taste every inch of you but not before we talk.”

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook. He's an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants. Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

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Monday, December 1, 2025

Part of Me Fell Into You New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: Part of Me Fell Into You

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/25/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33800

Genre: Contemporary romance, gay, bisexual, British, twins, cycling, ND, ADHD, crime family, anxiety, depression, loneliness, siblings, family drama

Add to Goodreads

Description

A gangster’s life is hard. As the youngest son of a Chicago mobster lord, Fionn O’Grady is no stranger to crime, even though he’s clean and renowned for kissing rather than fighting. It’s a lonely life for a pizza-loving redhead. All he’s ever wanted is an easy-going boyfriend who doesn’t take life too seriously. It’s too bad that no man will date him because of his family.

Trouble comes when a UK undercover cop infiltrates the O’Grady mansion. According to the family, it’s up to Fionn to gain revenge by kidnapping the cop’s kid brother. Kidnap? Fionn couldn’t hurt anyone, certainly not a handsome young man needing a caring boyfriend.

As the chaotic brother of an undercover cop, Oli Green is endlessly fascinated by gangsters, particularly pizza-loving redheads. At twenty, Oli’s no kid—he fantasises about being kidnapped by a gentle gangster to guide him through his first time. Bonus points for emo villains! Above all, Oli wants an easy-going boyfriend who doesn’t take life too seriously…

Fionn and Oli fall together as the gangster lord tightens his net around them. Is Fionn strong enough to decide what matters most—family honour or the tug of his heart?

Gangsters live hard, but they love even harder.

Excerpt

Excerpt

Part of Me Fell into You

Chapter One

Fionn

Fionn O’Grady was working at a figurine factory in Boston when the boss yelled him into the office.

“Miller. In here now.”

The other workers nudged one another knowingly. “Told you,” one of them muttered, evading Fionn’s questioning, startled gaze.

A familiar shiver traversed Fionn’s spine. It was the end of an eight-hour shift, and he was exhausted. Still, he liked to finish his art before knocking off for the day. Carefully, almost lovingly, he placed his paintbrush across the soldier figurine’s feet with a “Back soon” before scurrying into the office. He silently prayed he wasn’t facing unemployment again.

Inside the office, the boss loomed, disgust plastered across his face. He threw rather than handed Fionn a paper wallet. “Here are your documents, Tom Miller. Now scram, O’Grady scum. Did you think I wouldn’t find out who you are? I don’t hire gangsters, even ones with your painting skills. Scram.”

Fionn didn’t ask how the boss had discovered his identity. Nor did he challenge Mr Moss’s choice of words—‘scram’—for a worker who’d single-handedly painted a battalion of figurine soldiers in one day. There’d be no point now that Mr Moss knew who Fionn was.

“All right, then. The final soldier needs a varnish.”

Fionn grabbed his coat and exited the factory with a sickening sensation; the concrete beneath his feet tried to suck him into the bowels of the earth, down, down, down. He wished there were someone he might call, a friend to share the load, maybe even a boyfriend. But there was nobody.

At the bus stop, he waited in line behind two jostling teenage boys. Their youthful skirmish soon turned into passionate necking. Maybe the hormonal steam rising from the boys caused Fionn’s invisible armour to buckle and fall away one plate at a time.

Or maybe the breathlessness tearing suddenly at his throat was born not of longing but loss. Whatever the cause, the boys’ frantic energy caused an ache to spread, searing Fionn’s muscles and nerves and settling inside his chest. A catastrophic influx of emotion shattered his habitual numbness, rendering him vulnerable against a flood of memories and cravings he couldn’t name. Could it be nostalgia squeezing his lungs for the hopeful teen he’d once been, craving a kiss from the neighbour? Or was it something else?

In his head, the words, “You’re lonely,” shouted in his sister’s voice.

Fionn baulked. The reminder of his sister, followed by some talented graffiti that had been sprayed on a wall, snapped at his energy and will. One word in particular reminded him of the many countries he’d lived in without ever finding a home or an accent that felt right.

Outsider.

Maybe his changeable accent explained why he never fitted, no matter what. He’d been told at various times that he sounded Irish, Welsh, British, or American.

Lonely, his sister whispered again.

Fionn walked away from the graffiti, muttering to himself. Ach, sure, it’d been months since his boyfriend had left without a backwards glance, throwing cruel words impossible to forget. You’re related to the O’Grady scum? Don’t contact me again. Same old, same old. But it wasn’t as if Fionn was a stranger to hardship. On the contrary, he was well used to fleeing at midnight with two carrier bags. Therefore, the unexpected churning in his stomach and head made no sense at all.

Still, it took a grave effort to return to his customary state of numbness, to push aside the memory of his sister, Sinéad. The teenage boys now had their hands down each other’s jeans, not that Fionn cared, because he didn’t.

When it was his turn to board the bus, Fionn grabbed the handle to jump on.

The driver held up a hand, shouting, “No O’Gradys. You’re banned. This city has had enough.” Then he pointed at a poster on the window bearing the faces of Fionn’s family, his mugshot in the middle. As if the poster weren’t condemning enough, the passengers joined in the tirade of hatred by shouting and making rude gestures.

The bus driver sped away, leaving Fionn stranded. He stumbled backwards into a low wall, cheeks blazing, shame burning every inch of his freckled skin. Although he didn’t wish to know what his family had been up to now, he wouldn’t have minded knowing why the whole city had turned against him. In twenty-five years, Fionn had never been involved in crime, and he never would be.

Despair gripped his heart. How could one live without a job or money? The rent was due. He’d been relying on the wage from the figurine factory to tide him over until he made his fortune painting landscapes. Dad wouldn’t allow his youngest son back into the O’Grady home until Fionn agreed to work for the ‘business’. Mum was as bad as Dad, and his other siblings were older, each deeply immersed in the gangster underworld. The O’Gradys genuinely saw nothing wrong with their way of life. To them, he was the problem.

Despite the apocalypse gathering in his chest, it was a pleasant, warm evening. Spring wafted from hanging baskets and potted flowers: lavender, rose, lemon. Along with the scents, a heavy bout of sadness settled on Fionn. His beloved twin sister’s name was in his mouth before he could stop it. How could he help it? Though Sinéad had left years ago, Fionn still recognised a geranium from a petunia. His sister had loved floral scents, spending hours among flowers in the fields surrounding the family mansion. Her passion had naturally passed to her brother, who’d adored her.

Sinéad had been the clever one, running from the family at fifteen, never to return. If only the twins had saved enough money for two air tickets to England, Fionn would have fled with her, but they hadn’t managed it. By the time he’d earned enough to buy a flight from two paper rounds and night shifts at a paint factory, Fionn had forgotten the mobile number Sinéad forced him to memorise before she left. The numbers had jumbled in his anxious, ADHD brain alongside the fear of what Dad would do if he discovered the plan. For years, Fionn waited for Sinéad’s call. It never came. Ten years later, every pretty redhead resembled her.

He’d made many attempts over the years to locate his sis on social media, to no avail. She’d undoubtedly found a safer life under a new name. A nasty inner voice insisted she was better off without her brother anyway, since he was as chaotic as a giraffe on skates, fuelled by impulsivity and paper art.

Fortunately, Fionn kept an emergency packet of tissues in his pocket. Without it, he wouldn’t have survived the despair threatening to undo the façade of normality in which he survived.

He produced a tissue, ripped it into bits, and crafted a tiny bus. When he’d finished it, he felt immeasurably better. For Fionn, art represented a safety jacket when the storms appeared.

He propped up the paper bus on the wall where he’d collapsed, figuring someone else might need it. The panic faded, leaving a familiar determination to survive no matter the odds.

When he was able to breathe calmly, Fionn began the ten-mile walk home, expecting every tree to turn into a cop or, worse, a knife-wielding gangster. He was useless in a fight, yet beneath the anxiety, he yearned for a scrap like those he’d had with Sinéad as a child, fights that ended in laughter and a glass of fizzy pop. Since she’d left, life had become a pursuit of rent and bills rather than what it should have been: laughter, love, fun, fun, fun.

After miles of trudging, Fionn paused at a shop to buy a water bottle. The shopkeeper immediately slammed the door shut, pointing at a poster identical to the one on the bus. “Get lost, O’Grady!”

It was the final straw. Fionn sank onto a patch of grass, head in hands. His messy red hair falling into his eyes reminded him of his sister, whose long locks had once reached her bottom. Man, he missed her and the safety of family members he could trust.

Not even emergency tissues saved him from the brink of hopelessness. He hit rock bottom on the grass amidst the scent of summer flowers. Moments passed into hours.

Fortunately, the mental darkness never lasted long. Finally, a tiny light appeared, growing brighter every second.

Fionn recognised the light as a need for action, which, in turn, would shatter the awful greyness threatening to undo him. The urge to move, to fill the empty void, wasn’t new or without risk. He’d always been impulsive, even reckless. Mostly, he recognised the craving for what it was—part of his ADHD—but sometimes, he trusted his instincts despite the consequences.

A risky idea danced into his mind provocatively. Instead of heading to his apartment, he could walk to the family mansion, which was nearby, and confront his parents. After all, there was nothing left to lose. The visage of a repentant scene, where Dad begged for forgiveness, teased Fionn mercilessly: I missed you, son.

The temptation to return home quickly became too great to ignore. Fionn told himself he only wanted to see the family one last time. Yeah, it was time to confront them and then leave the city to start anew elsewhere. He should’ve done so ages ago. Surely Dad wouldn’t deny his youngest child a second chance? The great gang lord might offer to help contact Sinéad, wherever she was. Dad was a stubborn ass, but he’d always loved the twins—up until they’d begun saying no, anyway.

Fionn walked quickly towards his childhood home. By nature, he was cheerful and optimistic. The city had got him down, but things would improve once he got away. A long time ago, he’d forgiven his parents for throwing him out and his siblings for shunning him. Fionn had been born with a generous nature not even the O’Gradys had quenched.

Thirst and a wave of panic at the far end of the O’Grady driveway forced Fionn to a halt. It had been a year since the Sunday dinner when Dad offered him a job hacking into a bank.

“Easy work, son,” Dad had said. “Time you settled down and moved back with the family instead of slumming it in the seedy shithole you call home. My son working in a paint factory? No. You make me a laughing stock.”

Fionn had tried hard to stay calm, to stick to his guns. “Dad, no. I don’t want anything to do with crime, remember? I’m happy where I am in life. Okay? I’m different from you, but it doesn’t mean we can’t still get along. We’re family—right?” Fionn had laughed. Most people experienced the same conversation with their parents, albeit with different issues. Whereas school friends had negotiated bedtime, Sinéad and Fionn had argued about firearms.

His father had turned his back, beefy arms crossed, neck rigid with anger. “You break my heart. Get out of here. Don’t come back.”

Fionn had stupidly tried to reason with him, tugging at Dad’s arm, trying to make peace as always. “Dad? Can’t we talk about it?”

The awful scene ended abruptly when the family security guard, a tall woman with tattoos, dragged Fionn across the room before hurling him outside into the rain. She turned once before locking the family home.

“You heard the boss,” she’d said. “You’re rubbish.”

Fionn was left homeless, bitter jealousy souring his heart. What kind of father preferred a security guard to his own son?

“No, you’re rubbish,” he’d shouted futilely. But it was too late. The guard had already locked the door and drawn the blinds. Nobody wanted to hear what Fionn had to say, never mind act upon his wishes.

With hindsight, Fionn wished he could’ve accepted the job and made his father happy; he really did. He loved his dad and still craved the gang lord’s approval and love. But crime? Fionn couldn’t partake then or now. One hacking job would lead to another. Anyway, he was pants at anything like that. All Fionn had ever been good at was art and snuggles.

The painful memory of being thrown out of the family home immobilised him. It took a while before Fionn could wipe his face and walk down the driveway towards the family mansion, so thirsty not even the memory of Dad’s final haunting words slowed his progress. You’re an embarrassment.

It was a surprise to find the front door wide open. Mum never left the door open. Instinctively, Fionn knew something was very wrong. A black, ragged hole opened up within his chest. As children, he and Sinéad had always feared retribution, stabbings, and worse.

He rushed forward despite the danger, expecting to find the bodies of his family strewn across the living room.

Instead, the security guard who’d thrown him out months ago appeared and rugby-tackled him to the ground with a snarl.

Grass cuttings, earth, and flowers smacked Fionn in the face. He soon stopped fighting back. “For fuck’s sake. What is it with you and beating me up? Get off me,” he gasped.

The guard straddled him, holding his hands above his head, intent on winning. “Fionn O’Grady, at last. We’ve been waiting for you. As with the rest of the O’Grady scum, you’re under arrest. Time to pay for your crimes, rubbish. This town has had enough.”

With a quick flick of her wrist, she held up a police identity card bearing her photo and name. Charlie Green.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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Tuesday, November 18, 2025

Lemniscate New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: Lemniscate

Series: Darklight, Book Four

Author: Sean Ian O’Meidhir and Connal Braginsky

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/18/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 326

Genre: Paranormal, MM romance, explicit, fae, witches, mages, spider shifters, vampires, war, telepathy, psychic ability, psychologist, autism, problem-solving

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Description

Weaving the threads of eternity with Lemniscate, Nathen, a neurodiverse vampire, grapples with the intersection of special interests versus responsibility. At the same time, Cameron, a telepath, faces the shadow of his long-lost mother and the weight of what it means to truly protect the people he loves. Along with their elder vampire ally, August, they’re drawn into a volatile conflict between the spider fae and land fae. Together with a group of mages, they must uncover the key to ending the cycle of bloodshed, all while dodging betrayal, espionage, and secrets that threaten their bond.

From intricate fae politics to the camaraderie and chaos of their team, this final installment promises a tapestry of thrilling battles, poignant alliances, and profound personal growth.

Excerpt

August

My Dearest Paige,

I cannot express in mere words the guilt, the anguish. Dara assures me your death need not be on my conscience as the future is foretold: That your energy is part of us all. Your blood forever part of me as you were my maker.

August choked, lifting the quill from parchment. He closed his eyes tight, a wave of grief washing over him. Flashes of Paige after she had been struck down flickered through his memories. I should have protected you… He gulped, a stilted breath pushed out. He learned long ago that while he did not need to breathe, not doing so made mortals around him uncomfortable. Therefore, he had mastered the subtleties of a masquerade so he could walk among them without suspicion—now second nature. Dipping the nib in the inkwell, he began again.

The only illusion that exists is one of separation as we are all bound together and will meet over and over again. But you and I— We stood outside of time, in this stasis of existence. We are the ones to watch the world change. And for centuries, we did. I chose to carry the burden of my grief for Margaret. I believe her memory allowed me to hold fast to the humanity you had disdain for. The trials helped me to realize I needed to release the hurt. It no longer serves a purpose. I know the anguish I currently carry for your loss will fuel so very much in the weeks to come—

He set the quill aside when a rush of calm chased away his demons. Dara.

“I am interrupting.” Her earthy scent encompassed him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “But you were in distress.”

August leaned back, his head nestled against her, relishing the touch of her flowing green hair with wisps of auburn and gold as it swept across his chest. He patted her arms.

“I was saying goodbye to Paige. For centuries I would write to Margaret, and it brought some comfort. It kept her memory alive and assuaged my guilt for the new existence I had to embrace.” Realization made him pause for a moment. “The pattern repeats…”

“Over and over in the cycles,” Dara responded.

Unsure if she understood his epiphany, he turned to face her, rewarded when she slid around and into his lap. “The pattern of losing a woman I’ve loved to tragedy, of writing to her to gain perspective, of…holding on,” he mused.

Forest green eyes met his, the wisdom and calm of the oak comforting. “The battle to come will benefit from wherever you find strength.”

August hummed, burying his face in Dara’s chest, gaining strength there. Ever evolving. His cheek grazed a nipple that tented the gossamer cloth. The first time they were intimate, while she had the overall form of a human female, details such as feminine hair and nipples had been missing. Of course he would have never complained, assuming it natural. But subtle things had changed each time they met. He opted not to comment on them, grateful if she purposefully changed for him but also discreet enough not to call attention to it if she did not.

The simple act of forcing air into lungs that did not need it, only to let it out slowly in a sigh, helped to center him, to tie him to his human appearance. “The battle… I’m glad you won’t be there. I’m not sure what I would do if anything happened to you. I don’t think I’m strong enough to lose another,” he confessed.

“I am with you till eternities end,” she responded simply, the weight of her words ringing true in his ear.

The sounds of the rest of the coven, now disbanded, having felt Paige’s passing, filtered up to him. The truth of their feelings about Paige had become clear when he returned, and while they all mourned her loss, each experienced it differently. Indeed, one had professed his hatred for Paige and had taken his leave the moment August had confirmed the details. The others bickered over who would stay in the house, who would keep the artifacts, who would… It didn’t matter. His place was with Dara. So, he packed his belongings and passed them through the dream road for Dara to store for him. All that remained were his old writing desk and the writing instruments. But this project he could not hurry. Besides, saving it guaranteed his success, did it not? For how could he perish when he had yet to say farewell to his maker?

Cameron

“Jacks…” Cameron growled under his breath, pacing the bedroom where his mother slept peacefully. He shot a resentful look at Nathen who sat on the floor, his laptop open, staring blankly. No doubt talking with his new love—SpArk. And August! Off with Dara.

Cameron replayed memories. August had empathized, having been shown what Jacks was capable of but for some reason seemed to take it all in stride. “There are so many monsters out there. Better to have them on our side, wouldn’t you think?” Cameron tried to explain Jacks was the farthest from “on their side” than could be imagined, but August in his infuriatingly calm and collected way greeted and welcomed the man. August had gracefully led the entire interaction. While Cameron and Nathen were reeling, August displayed respectful charm. He introduced himself, ushered Cameron and Nathen into the other room with directions for them to check on Maria, and then returned to have a pleasant conversation with Jacks. He professionally and succinctly brought Jacks up to speed and, to his credit, Jacks shifted from arrogant jackass into all-business mode asking strategic questions. The two planned to rendezvous the following day after nightfall in order to regroup and Jacks had been…manipulated into coordinating travel?

“I am wondering how to go about arranging travel for the whole group. There’s Cameron, Nathen, you, and me, but also potentially four others. I could start looking into airlines for the seven of us and—”

Jacks cut August off. “I’ll have our company’s plane ready on the runway. We will rendezvous here at 18:00 as sunset is shortly after. We can discuss strategy on the plane. From here to New York is a three-hour flight, which will give us plenty of time. Once there, I will have a car scheduled to take us to one of the company’s strongholds.” At that, Jacks stood and shook August’s hand.

Cameron marveled at the memory. August had so masterfully manipulated Jacks no one would have guessed. The realization shook Cameron from his grousing. His attention turned to Nathen, who spun in an autistic overload. As he focused on Nathen’s mind, sparks of thought bombarded him: the ramifications—Jacks alive—reconstituted—nanites—the explosion—Cameron dying—what he had done to save him—Jacks’s atrocities—Jacks alive—nanites—Paradigm—Impetus—fae—the explosion—HR in the boardroom—HR on the phone—HR in New Orleans—nanites—the ritual to rid them of nanites—

Cameron sighed and knelt beside Nathen. His kiss or a touch wouldn’t soothe Nathen, so he sent a wave of calm across him. Nathen slumped some, but he needed time to process so stared on. He’d snap out of it.

Cameron came to rest on the floor, lost in his own thoughts, grateful Maria and Julia were okay. Julia had left to find food but would be returning shortly. Serge and Alfonso had left to investigate what had become of their home but had promised to check in later. The battle—the arachnoid monsters—the fire that had engulfed the house and destroyed Paige—all played out in his mind, and he found himself drifting off as exhaustion overcame him.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Sean Ian O’Meidhir is a psychologist who lives in San Francisco, California. Sean is a hedonist who believes in living for today, living every day to the fullest, and enjoying as much as possible. Sean has been gaming since adolescence and has written about and played hundreds of lives, reveling in the chance to take on new personalities, dramas, even disorders.

Connal Braginsky is a software engineer who lives in San Diego, California. Diagnosed with high functioning autism, Connal sometimes struggles in social situations, but has an inner world that is always incredibly rich. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge about many esoteric things, Connal brings a lot of personal philosophies and interests to writing

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Saturday, November 15, 2025

To Beguile a Banished Lord Review #IndiGo

Title: To Beguile a Banished Lord

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Three

Author: Fearne Hill

Cover Artist: Mandy Porto

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/11/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 294

Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, bisexual, age-gap, humorous, sunny/grumpy, hurt-comfort, humorous

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Description

Rollo Duchamps-Avery, the high-spirited second son of the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, is not in his father’s best books. After one misdemeanour too many, the earl ruins Rollo’s idyllic summer by packing him off to the wilds of rural Norfolk, arranging for him to stay with the Duke of Ashington’s loathsome brother.

Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons has an aversion to houseguests. Shunned by polite society for crimes far wickeder than anything Rollo could dream up, all Fitzsimmons wants is to drink himself into a stupor, tend his beloved hydrangeas, and take potshots at tin soldiers.

If only his inquisitive young visitor, with his pretty little head of wispy blond hair, his stupidly coltish legs, and his knack of always being where Fitzsimmons would rather him not, would leave him in peace.

This third book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features the fourteenth Earl of Rossingley’s lively second son, Rollo, and the Duke of Ashington’s disgraced brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. This book can be read as a standalone.

The following excerpt contains material suitable only for readers 18+.

Excerpt

To Beguile a Banished Lord

Chapter One

Rossingley Estate, Summer, 1825

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not…

“Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”

Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable. “No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far. He is provoked beyond measure.”

“He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”

“My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever. “Not his licentious offspring.”

Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens. It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.

“You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”

“Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.

Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second. One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door. The window, alas, was closed.

Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head. Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.

“Sorry, old chap.” At least Kit sounded genuine. “For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it. Some of us enjoy having you around.”

What did he mean by having you around? Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted. And talk him out of what?

Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls. Rollo coveted both immensely. As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth. Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.

“Rollo, my darling.”

Rollo winced. Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.

“Yes, Papa.”

The ice-chip eyes glittered. “You know why you’re here, I assume?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably. Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind. “Writing out I must not swive the stable boy one hundred times was a significant clue. The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle. But no less vexing.”

The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant. Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers. Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”

Rollo straightened his shoulders. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that. The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.

“Yes, Papa. Several things, actually.”

Papa sighed. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Firstly, my wrist aches.” Rollo waggled it to demonstrate. “I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly. And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”

“Naturally, he was; you paid him two pounds!”

“And it was very well deserved.”

“And then a further crown, on account, for future favours!”

Goodness, Pritchard had been busy. Rollo shot him an evil look, though in having his financial transactions laid out so bluntly, his bravura hung by a thread.

“At risk of repeating myself,” Rollo ploughed on, “I considered it money well spent. Ellis has several strings to his bow.”

“Evidently.”

His father’s fine blond brows knit together. The line between standing up for himself and cheeking Papa was a fine one; Rollo had a sneaking suspicion he might have tiptoed across it.

“Darling Rollo,” began his father, a layer of frost coating each syllable. “For all I care, our stable boy could have the whole string section of London’s prestigious Philharmonic Society tucked behind the fall of his breeches. And you could have twanged every single instrument.”

Rollo had been on his knees attempting exactly that until he’d been discovered by the second groom, who’d blabbed to the head groom, who’d gone tittle-tattling to Pritchard.

“Nevertheless, as you are well aware, there is nothing I detest more than fortunate, well-heeled members of society taking advantage of those in their employ.” With an irritable flick of his hand, Papa waved away Rollo’s attempt to defend his actions. “That Ellis was willing is an irrelevance. You placed the man in a devilishly awkward position, and I simply will not tolerate it. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

“Yes, Papa,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, Papa.”

“And so you should be.”

Yet to be mollified, his father folded his arms and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “The simple truth remains. Our loyal servants are out of bounds. I distinctly recall this being made perfectly clear to you when you returned from Eton last year. Did I not?”

Rollo hung his head. “Yes, Papa.”

“If it had been your first demeanour and you had been totally in the dark, then, of course, I would instruct you on how a Duchamps-Avery should behave. It would be remiss of me not to. But, as it is, the fact that you stand here, arguing the point after all I’ve…”

Ahhh, to begin the day with one of Papa’s sweet lectures. Rollo didn’t need to tune in for the rest. He knew how things ran. Their disputes were well rehearsed operatic duets, composed of increasing exasperation on Papa’s part, Rollo feigning abject apology, a discourse on how a Duchamps-Avery should conduct themselves, ending with a loving embrace and a promise to do better. As usual, Pritchard and Kit had been making a fuss over nothing. Rollo would bow his head a few times, continue to appear suitably repentant, and ride this one out.

Content in the sure knowledge he was loved, Rollo’s thoughts drifted. In a few moments, Papa would fizzle out and decree his penance. Idly, Rollo wondered what it might be. Papa was nothing if not creative. Over the years, Rollo’s punishments had ranged from counting all the earwigs in the orangery (aged five, he was discovered hiding in the coal cellar after two hours of searching) to scrubbing the scullery steps with a toothbrush (for convincing his twin brother, Willoughby, that eating crushed pinecones would allow him to see better in the dark). Willoughby casting up his accounts the next morning during the church sermon aside, some of Rollo’s so-called punishments had turned into rather good fun. Like the time he was consigned to digging over the vegetable patch and unearthed an adder, which had slithered over Pritchard’s foot.

“To that end, Rollo, it is high time you had a firmer hand. My own father, rest his soul, oft quoted that a rose bush must be heavily pruned in order to produce the best blooms. And, on this occasion, I believe he was speaking with the weight of wisdom. Don’t you agree?”

Papa’s lecture appeared to have taken a horticultural detour. “Er…yes?”

“Excellent.” His father clapped his hands. “Therefore, Dobson will accompany you when you depart for your trip to Norfolk this afternoon, see you safely settled in, and return to collect you in three months’ time.”

“D-Dobson will…what?” Rollo’s happy flights of reminiscence screeched to a halt. Did…did he…did…? “Sorry, Papa, I must have misheard. Did you just say Dobson’s accompanying me to Norfolk?”

“Got it in one, darling. You are clever. To Goule Hall, to be precise. On the edge of the Broads, between some hellish backwater named Stokesby and another provincial bog going by the name of Wroxham, I believe. A delightful, if not a tad isolated, property belonging to the Ashington estate. The duke’s twin brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, remains in residence after spending an enforced period of seclusion there a couple of years ago, whilst he…ah…reflected on several episodes of…ah…poor behaviour in and around the ton. I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say that in comparison, dear boy, your antics are those of a rank amateur.”

This Lord Lyndon Fitz-something-or-other could have kidnapped the moon from under the noses of the sun and the stars for all that Rollo cared. “And this…this Goule Hall is in Norfolk?” he clarified, aghast. Perhaps, somehow, his father was confusing Norfolk with Mayfair.

Alas, no.

“Unless the hall has been excavated and deposited elsewhere since the duke and I corresponded less than a week ago, then yes.”

“And Willoughby is coming too,” Rollo decreed, praying if he said it with enough confidence, that would somehow make it true.

His father shook his head. “On the contrary. Willoughby will be travelling to London with me. I plan to use the time you are apart to begin schooling your brother in the rudiments of my business affairs.” He flashed Rollo an evil little smile very much like Rollo’s own, displaying all of his sharp pointed teeth. “And perhaps take the opportunity to do some shopping, pay a visit to my tailor, and so forth.”

Ugh. That was a low blow. Rollo didn’t give two hoots for learning about business. Willoughby would inherit the title and all that nonsense, anyhow. But how he adored their family shopping expeditions! Much more than Willoughby ever did.

Pritchard made an odd noise, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Knowing the blasted valet, the whole thing had been his bloody idea. He’d always enjoyed having the earl to himself. Rollo would have said so, too, if every ounce of his not inconsiderable intelligence wasn’t fixated on desperately seeking a way out of the barren wasteland now known as his immediate future. Because, from where he was sitting, Norfolk already seemed horribly like a fait accompli. Three months. Three summer months. Stuck with a dull, ancient lord, in a draughty old hall in the middle of effing nowhere. They might as well just shoot him with a musket ball now and be done with it.

He tried one last time. “Ha ha, very funny. But…really, Papa? Norfolk? Cold, flat, windy Norfolk? Even Bonaparte wasn’t exiled to Norfolk!”

“No.” The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement. “But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants. Pritchard? Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind. I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.